


Small But Golden

by Shachaai



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-10
Updated: 2015-09-10
Packaged: 2018-04-20 03:26:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4771691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shachaai/pseuds/Shachaai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>France and England watch a meteor shower together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Small But Golden

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the Perseid meteor shower in August (which I watched for a while with my mother and a small startled frog), but unfortunately didn’t get finished until now due to computer woes. The fruk can be read as either friendship or romance.  
> Also crossposted to my tumblr.

“You’re still just wearing a t-shirt?”

A few steps ahead of France in the field and cutting a scruffy figure amongst the sweet French lavender, England just shrugs. He has no jacket on to speak of, and his arms are bare from shoulder to the hands he has stuffed in his jeans’ pockets, his head already tilted back to look at the sky. “It was warm today.”

It _had_ been warm, even for France’s standards, the sky wide and blue save for the occasional fluffy white cloud. The blue is all gone now, of course, leaving with the falling night, but the sky is still clear, a vast stretch of black above – speckled with stars and the bright streaks that are part of the meteor shower that England and France had come out of doors to see. So much prettier than political paperwork.

France, an example in his own unbuttoned blazer but otherwise equally as casually dressed (naturally doing it so much _better_ ), lengthens his stride a little to catch up with his absent-minded little guest. “Ah, but you see, Angleterre,” he says, “that was _today._ And it is no longer today, but to _night._ The great difference between day and night being, of course, that the _sun_ is up during the day, and it is.” France gestures to nothing, loosens up his wrist from an afternoon spent too long holding a pen. “Very _warm_ , the sun. But conversely when it is _night,_ the sun is _down,_ and –” England is still looking up at the sky, his face far too peaceful to be absorbing even the slightest ounce of what France is saying. (England _never_ looks so serene during a lecture he is paying attention to.) “And you are not listening to a word I’m saying, are you.”

England isn’t. Subsequently, there is a pause after France’s question long enough that England _notices_ the silence between them, the Englishman lowering his head to peer at France curiously. “Hm?”

“Oh, _petit misérable-_ ” France flings up his hands, and accepts defeat. If the Nation of France is lucky enough that England catches his death of cold, the blame will be upon his England’s head only. “I give up.”

“How very French of you,” England comments blandly, the old insult _so_ old France lets it roll off of him like water off of a duck’s back, a quick scoff at the back of his throat the only acknowledgement of its passing.

He looks up, instead, whilst there is quiet between them, to appreciate the beauty of the night sky above – and feels his heartbeat quicken a few milliseconds faster when he catches sight of his first meteor since coming outside, a quick streak of light through the stars. France slows his pace in wonder, feeling rather than seeing England do the same beside him, and they both come to a gradual stop.

“...Do you remember,” England asks – and that same something that has already moved France so must have moved through his chest too, for England’s tone has lightened, softened, matching the shadowy sway of the lavender and the grass in the night breeze -, “when we were younger, there was a meteor shower much like this one? Someone told us that the lights were angels falling from heaven, and _you_ made us kneel down and pray.”

Two more streaks of light, one moving straight through the little bear and the winding tail of draco.

“...I remember,” says France, though the memory feels further away from him than even the meteors are, and he must close his eyes for just a moment to remember days of old, old lavender, and a small, grubby, half-trusting hand in his that had only not seemed _tiny_ to him because his own hands had barely been much bigger. “Though I do _not_ remember _you_ doing much praying, you little heathen. _You_ were far too busy -”

“…Trying to count them all, that’s right.” England laughs, and the sound of it sharpens the memory, the ancient bells of the Ringing Isle shaking off the cobwebs of time. France’s face twists up remembering old childish piques – England had laughed (at him) then too, the little _brat._ “You almost had a fit.”

And _rightfully so._ France turns on his companion, England’s expression mirthful enough to remind France of the old (not so old, since they are commonly good at renewing it) vexation. “You were counting _hundreds!_ Not only was it _annoying -_ ”

“It was only annoying because _you_ kept _missing_ them.” England’s tone is wicked, lazily tilting only his head in France’s direction. “Because you kept looking away from the sky to scold _me._ ”

France points his finger at him, meteors forgotten. “I was worried that all those fallen angels you were counting would arrive as vengeful demons and rip out our souls!” England just snorts at him. “I still presumed you actually _had_ a soul at that point.”

“Well, frog, I hope you’re not expecting prayer from me about a meteor shower in this day and age.” England shrugs, apparently unbothered by his creative, spiritual and astrophysical failings. Godless, soulless, vexing _wretch_. (The perfect example of an Englishman.) “I can barely manage poetry.” He looks back to the sky again, to all intents and purposes considering the endless firmament with a great deal of thought, and for a _moment_ France thinks that some of the wonder of the universe might have stirred in the spiritual void in England’s chest, but – “Twinkle, twinkle, little star -”

_“Angleterre.”_

“You’re not at all a star by far -”

France cuts England off before he is forced to suffer any more. “I’m telling Amerique you serenaded me with bad space poetry.”

The threat is an empty one – brave is the sweet fool who broaches space with America, since the boy will talk the hind legs off of a donkey on the subject – and England knows it. His grin is a swift as the streak of another meteor above them. “You’re just jealous that I’ve still counted more meteors than you.”

_Le petit –_

France sniffs. “Oh? How many have you counted?”

“Tonight?” If France had to guess, he would say England seems pleased to be asked, his shoulders rolling back comfortably to broaden his stance with something like childish pride. (It is easy to step back into memories for both of them, isn’t it.) “Forty-two.”

France’s immediate thought is to quibble – England _cannot_ have counted so many meteors already; they have not been outside so long – but stills his tongue. England had hovered by the windows _inside_ at every opportunity as soon as it had grown decently dark, his pale fingertips touched lightly to the windowpane in France’s darkened kitchen as he’d waited for the kettle to boil so he could make them both another drink. (There will be marks there on all the cold mornings in autumn now; smudges revealed when condensation beads on the glass.)

France rolls his shoulders back instead, the picture of an unruffled, unconcerned Gallic shrug. “I have not been counting,” he says, implying _unlike certain_ others _, I have better things to do._

“Too busy scolding again,” says England, and France glares at him.

Until France catches a bright moving pinpoint of light in the sky at the corner of his eye, flinging out his hand to point at it. “ _One_ ,” he proclaims rather defiantly, daring England to doubt his meteor-counting ability should he _care_ to put any effort into it.

Still smirking, England steps closer so he can better follow the line of France’s finger with his gaze, his bare arm brushing against the sleeve of France’s blazer.

A beat of silence, no doubt consumed by England busy mentally preparing his sarcastic congratulatory speech.

“…France, that’s a plane.”


End file.
